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  ‘Don’t mock the faith!’ she said. ‘It will do you no good.’

  When she had calmed down, she waved away the cigarette smoke, which seemed to bother him, and, putting on a special voice, said:

  ‘I went to see a lot of people. I made some important friends for you.’

  She felt a malicious need to tell him everything. She would have liked him to be aware just how she had worked to bring him success. The admission she had now made was a first move to relieve the feelings of resentment she had hidden for so long. If he had insisted, she would have given him precise details. It was this step back into the past that made her look so radiant, and slightly crazy, her skin covered in a kind of golden dew.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘men very hostile to your ideas, whom I had to win over, my dear.’

  Rougon had turned very pale. Now he understood. But all he said was:

  ‘I see!’

  He tried to change the subject, but, calmly and brazenly, with a throaty chuckle, she continued to stare at him with her dark eyes, until he gave in and began to question her.

  ‘De Marsy, you mean?’

  Puffing a cloud of smoke over her shoulder, she nodded.

  ‘Rusconi?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Monsieur Lebeau, Monsieur de Salneuve, Monsieur Guyot-Laplanche?’

  Three more nods. But she baulked at the name of Monsieur de Plouguern. That one, no! She drained her chartreuse, licking the bottom of the glass, a look of triumph on her face.

  Rougon had risen to his feet. He strode to the far end of the room, then came back and stood behind her. Breathing down her neck, he said:

  ‘Then why not me?’

  She swung round, afraid he would kiss her on the back of the head.

  ‘You? But what would be the point?… What a stupid thing to say! I didn’t need to campaign for you to yourself, did I?’

  He stared at her, white with anger. She burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, how innocent you are! It’s impossible to make a joke, you believe everything I say… Come, come, my dear, do you really think I’m capable of such behaviour? And, what’s more, just for your benefit! In any case, if I’d done such wicked things, I certainly wouldn’t tell you… You are funny!’

  For a moment Rougon was quite embarrassed, but the ironical way she said she had been pulling his leg made him even more exasperated, while her whole demeanour, her throaty laughter, the glint in her eyes, seemed to belie her denials. He reached out to put his arms round her waist, when for the third time there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Too bad,’ she muttered, ‘I’m not hiding my cigarette this time.’

  A commissioner came in, quite out of breath, stammering that the Minister of Justice needed to speak with His Excellency urgently, and out of the corner of his eye he stared at the woman who stood there smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Tell him I’ve gone out!’ Rougon shouted. ‘I don’t want to see anyone. Is that clear?’

  When the commissioner had backed out, bowing, Rougon went wild with fury, banging on the furniture with his fists. They couldn’t leave him alone for a second now! Just the previous evening they had hauled him out of his bathroom as he was shaving! Clorinde strode purposefully to the door.

  ‘Just wait a minute,’ she said, ‘I’ll soon put a stop to that.’

  She took the keys and double-locked the door from the inside.

  ‘There, now they can knock as much as they like!’

  She went and stood by the window, and rolled another cigarette. He thought the moment had come when she would at last give in. He walked up to her and, standing behind her, murmured:

  ‘Clorinde!’

  She did not move. He tried again, even more softly:

  ‘Clorinde, why not?’

  She was unmoved. She just shook her head, though not very emphatically, as if she wanted to encourage him. But suddenly he was all timidity, afraid to touch her, like a schoolboy paralysed by his first amorous success. Then, after a few moments, he did kiss her, roughly, pressing his lips to her neck where her hair began. Only then did she turn round. But she was full of scorn, and cried:

  ‘What’s this? Are you starting all over again, my dear? I thought these attacks of yours were over… What a strange man you are, kissing women after thinking about it for eighteen months.’

  He lowered his head and charged at her, seizing one of her hands and covering it with kisses. She made no attempt to stop him, but taunted him, without getting angry.

  ‘Don’t bite my fingers, at least,’ she said. ‘You do surprise me! You were so well behaved when I went to see you in the Rue Marbeuf! And here you are, all crazy again, just because I tell you some dirty stories which, thank God, I could never imagine being real. Well, that’s very nice, my dear!… I don’t get excited so easily. After all, what happened between us is ancient history. And just as you didn’t want me then, I don’t want you now.’

  ‘But listen,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll give you anything you want, I’ll do anything.’

  But she repeated her No, punishing him now for rejecting her in the past, thus giving herself her first taste of revenge. She had longed to see him all-powerful, so that she could refuse him and affront his male might.

  ‘Never, never,’ she repeated several times. ‘Have you forgotten? Never!’

  Then, shamelessly, Rougon fell on all fours at her feet. He took her petticoats in his arms and kissed her knees through the silk. It was not, however, the soft silk worn by Madame Bouchard, but thick wads of material, that gave off an odour that intoxicated him. With a shrug, she let him fondle her petticoats, but then he grew bolder, slipping his hands under the hem, feeling for her feet.

  ‘Be careful!’ she said, still perfectly calm.

  Then, as he plunged his hands deeper, she pressed the glowing end of her cigarette against his forehead. With a yell, he fell back. He would have rushed at her again, but she slipped out of reach and, with her back to the wall, stood holding a bell pull against the mantelpiece.

  ‘I’ll ring!’ she cried. ‘I’ll say you locked me in!’

  He spun round, clenching his forehead, his body shaken by a terrible convulsion. For a few seconds, he was unable to move, afraid he would hear his head explode. All at once he drew himself up to recover his calm. His ears were still buzzing, his eyes seeing nothing but red flames.

  ‘I’m a brute!’ he muttered. ‘How stupid!’

  Clorinde laughed victoriously and, wagging her finger, told him he was wrong to despise women. In time he would come to recognize that some women were very strong. Then, resuming her friendly tone, she said:

  ‘We’re not angry, are we?… Let’s be clear, don’t ask me again. I don’t want to, I just don’t want to!’

  Ashamed of himself, Rougon paced up and down. She let go of the bell pull and went to the table, where she sat down and, taking some lumps of sugar, dissolved them in a glass of water.

  ‘As I was saying,’ she said calmly, ‘I heard from my husband yesterday. I had so much to do this morning that I might have let you down for lunch if I hadn’t wanted to show you his letter. Here it is… You’ll see he reminds you of the promises you made.’

  Rougon took the letter and read it as he walked up and down, then with a dismissive gesture tossed it on to the table in front of her.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  He did not reply immediately. Hunching his shoulders, he gave a slight yawn.

  ‘He’s a fool,’ he said at last.

  She was very hurt. For some time she had refused to let anyone question her husband’s abilities. For a moment she lowered her eyes, repressing her indignation. But little by little she overcame her schoolgirl submissiveness and seemed to draw sufficient strength from Rougon to be able to face him as a worthy opponent.

  ‘If this letter was made public, he’d be finished,’ Rougon said, seeking to avenge himself of the wife’s resistance by attacking the husband. ‘You never know what he’ll do next.’
r />   ‘You exaggerate, my dear,’ she replied, after a pause. ‘There was a time when you said he’d go far. He has real qualities… It’s not always the strong men who go furthest.’

  Rougon was still pacing up and down. He simply shrugged.

  ‘After all,’ she went on, ‘it’s in your own interests to have him in the government. You would then be sure of a friend. If the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce does retire for health reasons, as they say, that would be a splendid opportunity. My husband is competent, and this mission to Italy has brought him to the attention of the Emperor… You know the Emperor likes him a lot. They get on well. They see eye to eye… One word from you would settle the matter.’

  He walked round the room again two or three times before replying. Coming to a halt in front of her, he said:

  ‘Very well, then… There are bigger fools, I suppose… But if I help him, it’ll be just for you. I want you to like me. You’re a hard nut to crack, aren’t you? You can be very spiteful, can’t you?’

  He said this laughingly. She laughed as well, and said:

  ‘Yes, very spiteful… I hold grudges for ever.’

  As she was leaving, he held her back for a moment at the door. They shook hands twice, very warmly, without saying another word.

  Once he was alone, Rougon returned to his office. The large room was empty. He sat down at his desk and put his elbows on the blotting pad, breathing hard. His eyelids began to droop and for nearly ten minutes he was gripped by drowsiness. But suddenly he gave a start, stretched, and rang for Merle.

  ‘I expect the Prefect of the Somme is still waiting?’ he said. ‘Show him in.’

  Pale but smiling, the Prefect entered and formally introduced himself to the Minister. Still rather drowsy, Rougon invited him to sit down, and waited a few moments.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘let me explain why I sent for you. It’s because there are certain kinds of instructions that can’t be given in writing… As no doubt you’re aware, the revolutionary party is becoming active again. We came within a whisker of a terrible catastrophe. Naturally, the country needs to be reassured. It needs to feel it is being fully protected by the government. His Majesty has decided to make a number of examples, for his kindness has been greatly abused…’

  He spoke slowly, leaning back in his armchair, toying with a large seal with an agate handle. The Prefect approved each point with a quick little nod.

  ‘Your department’, Rougon continued, ‘is one of the worst. The Republican disease…’

  ‘I’m making every effort…’, the Prefect began.

  ‘Please don’t interrupt… In your department the operation needs to be spectacularly successful. The reason why I wanted to see you was to make that point… Here in the Ministry we have not been wasting our time. We have drawn up a list…’

  He sorted through some papers, then took out a file and turned the pages.

  ‘We felt we should portion out the arrests considered necessary in the whole country. The number in each department has been fixed in proportion to the effect we’re aiming for… You understand? So, here, in the Haute-Marne, where the Republicans are only a very small minority, three arrests. The Meuse, on the other hand — fifteen arrests… And your department … The Somme, yes, here we are, the Somme…’

  He turned the sheets, his heavy eyelids blinking. At last he raised his head and looked at the Prefect fully in the face.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, twelve arrests. That is your task.’

  The pale little man bowed and repeated the words:

  ‘Twelve arrests… I fully understand, Your Excellency.’

  But he remained somewhat puzzled, worried about something he did not wish to mention. After several minutes, however, as the Minister was about to dismiss him, he decided he would broach the matter.

  ‘Would it be possible for Your Excellency to indicate whom he has in mind?’

  ‘Arrest whoever you like!’ cried Rougon. ‘I can’t get involved in details like that. I’d be swamped. Go back to your department tonight and start the arrests tomorrow… A word of advice, though — aim high! In your part of the country you’ve got lawyers, businessmen, and pharmacists who all dabble in politics. Lock ’em all up. That has a greater effect.’*

  The Prefect wiped his forehead nervously, racking his brains to recall any such lawyers, businessmen, and pharmacists, while he went on nodding in acquiescence. But Rougon was not happy with his hesitant attitude.

  ‘I have to tell you,’ he said, ‘His Majesty is very dissatisfied at present with his administrative personnel. There may soon be an extensive reshuffle of prefects. In the perilous circumstances in which we find ourselves, we need men who are totally loyal.’

  This was like a lash from a whip.

  ‘Your Excellency can count on me,’ cried the Prefect. ‘I already have my men: there’s a pharmacist in Péronne and a draper and paper manufacturer in Doullens. As for the lawyers, there are plenty of them, quite an infestation… Yes, I can assure Your Excellency I’ll find that dirty dozen easily enough… I’m a faithful servant of the Empire.’

  He went on to speak about saving the country, and as he left he made a very low bow. When he had gone, Rougon stood swaying, still unsure of the Prefect’s reliability. He did not trust little men. Without sitting down, he took a red pencil and on a list drew a stroke through the word ‘Somme’. More than two-thirds of the departments were already so marked. The air in the office was heavy with the dust on the green plush curtains, to which Rougon’s stout frame added its own special odour.

  When he rang for Merle again, he was annoyed to see that the anteroom was still full. He even thought he recognized the two women by the table.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to send everybody away?’ he cried. ‘I’m going out, I can’t see anybody else.’

  ‘The editor of Le Vœu national is here,’ the commissioner said softly.

  Rougon had quite forgotten him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he told Merle to show him in. He was a man in his forties, dressed with studied elegance, with thickset features.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ Rougon said brusquely. ‘Things can’t go on as they are, you know! I’m warning you!’

  Stomping up and down, he denounced the press in the most extreme terms. The newspapers were subversive, they were demoralizing, they created all kinds of trouble. He would rather have brigands and highwaymen than journalists. A man can recover from a knife wound, but the stabs of the pen are poisonous. He made still more extravagant comparisons, gradually working himself up into a rage, his voice reverberating round the room like thunder. Still standing just inside the room, the editor bowed his head in the face of the storm, wearing a humble and dismayed expression. At last he was able to ask:

  ‘If Your Excellency would kindly tell me exactly what he is referring to, it would be easier to understand…’

  ‘Understand? What don’t you understand?’ cried Rougon, beside himself.

  He dashed across the room, slapped the newspaper on his desk, and pointed to the columns heavily marked in red pencil.

  ‘There’s barely ten lines that are not censurable. In your editorial you even seem to be casting doubts on the good faith of the regime in the work it’s doing to suppress rebellion. In this paragraph, on page two, you seem to be alluding to me, here where you refer to the outrageous success of certain go-getters. And in your miscellaneous news items there are filthy stories and mindless attacks on the upper classes.’

  Aghast, the editor clasped his hands together and tried to get a word in.

  ‘I swear, Your Excellency… I’m horrified to think Your Excellency could have thought for a moment… When I hold Your Excellency in such high regard.’

  But Rougon would not listen.

  ‘And what’s worse, Monsieur, is that everybody knows the links between yourself and the regime. How do you think the other rags are going to respect us if the papers we subsidize don’t? All my friends have been c
omplaining about this outrageous nonsense since early this morning.’

  Now the editor gave voice too. These particular items he had not seen personally. But he would certainly sack all the relevant journalists forthwith. If His Excellency wished, he would send him a proof copy every morning before publication. Relieved, Rougon declined this offer, saying he did not have time. He was pushing the editor to the door when he suddenly remembered something.

  ‘I was forgetting,’ he said. ‘That novel you’re serializing… It’s hideous… A well-brought-up woman deceiving her husband. It’s an appalling attack on the value of a decent education. You can’t possibly have respectable women breaking their marriage vows like that!’

  ‘The story is enjoying a great deal of success,’ replied the editor, who was clearly getting worried again. ‘I read it myself, and I must say I found it very interesting.’

  ‘What? You read it yourself? Well, my dear sir, tell me this: does the wretched woman show any sign of remorse at the end?’

  The editor, feeling quite dazed, pressed his hand to his forehead, trying to remember.

  ‘Remorse?’ he stammered. ‘No, I don’t think she does.’

  Rougon had opened the door, but quickly closed it again.

  ‘She must show remorse!’ he shouted. ‘Tell the author that he must make her show remorse!’

  Chapter 10

  Rougon had written to Du Poizat and Monsieur Kahn asking them to spare him the tedium of an official reception on his arrival at Niort. He went down on a Saturday evening, arriving a little before seven, and drove straight to the Prefecture, with the idea of resting till midday on the Sunday. He was worn out. But after dinner a number of people came in. The news of the Minister’s presence must already have spread through the town. The double doors of a room opening off the dining room were opened wide and there was a little reception. Rougon stood between two windows, stifling yawns as he responded politely to all those who offered words of welcome.

  A deputy — the lawyer who had inherited Monsieur Kahn’s official candidature — was the first to appear, nervous and fussy, in frock coat and light-coloured trousers, explaining that he had only just arrived on foot from one of his farms, but had felt it his duty to come round at once to pay his respects to His Excellency. Next came a tubby little man buttoned into a tight-fitting black coat, with white gloves, looking very serious and formal. This was the first Deputy Mayor. His maid, he said, had just told him of Rougon’s arrival. He kept saying that the Mayor would be most put out, because he was away on his property at Varades, six miles away, and was not expecting His Excellency until the following day. The first Deputy Mayor was followed by six more gentlemen, with big feet, massive fists, and wide, thickset faces. The Prefect introduced them as distinguished members of the Niort Statistical Society. Finally, there was the headmaster of the lycée, with his wife, a delightful blonde of twenty-eight, a Parisienne whose outfits were revolutionizing Niort. She complained bitterly to Rougon about life in the provinces.